


Another Place

by The_lazy_eye



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (Even Though Its Totally Requited), Anal Sex, Angst, Assumed Unrequited Love, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, M/M, Pining, Pre Apocalyptic Hookup, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), impending doom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-23 06:56:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20238631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_lazy_eye/pseuds/The_lazy_eye
Summary: I could write a book about the things that you said to me on the pillowAnd the way you think, and how you make me feelYou can fill my mind and move my body with the fiction, fantasiesJust call this what it is, we don't pretend it's realSo don't make promises to me that you're gonna breakWe only ever wanted one thing from thisDon't paint wonderful lies on me that wash awayWe only ever wanted one thing from thisOh, in another placeIn another time, what could we have been?





	Another Place

His body opens up in a way that isn’t quite miraculous but might be a touch too easy, unlike the typical human body.

Flesh moving flesh, becoming pliable beneath thick, delicate digits. 

Outside, the world is unsuspecting. Both to their unholy union and to its impending doom. In less than twenty-four hours, the world will be nothing but fire and smoke and ash. By this time, heaven and hell will have fought its war and the human race will be eradicated.

There is nothing more tragic than destruction. And oh, how things are to be destroyed. 

The world. The entirety of humanity. Everything Crowley has come to love over the last few millennia; if he ever was capable of love at all. 

Doesn’t matter anymore, now does it? 

None of it does. The only thing that matters is the weight bearing down on top of him. The body sinks into him, gently at first and then steady. 

“Are you okay?” he’s asked. It’s soft, reassuring, just like the press of his fingers. “Oh, dear, please say something.” 

He can’t say anything at first. All he can do is look up into those golden features. For a second, the strange nostalgia of heaven washes over him. 

Aziraphale adds a third digit and Crowley can’t help but sing his praises like a gospel song. Only it’s not through hymns or steady beats, it’s with a low whine that starts in the back of his throat and has no way of being concealed. 

The tip of a syllable gets trapped in his mouth, one he hasn’t spoken without venom or regret for thousands of years. It would be laughably appropriate if he were to say it now, but what comes out instead is a sputtering, “Oh, _ fuck_.”

It was all Crowley’s idea. One final wahoo before the end of the world. It was one of the few human pleasures they had not let themselves have yet. At least, as far as Crowley knew. He didn’t like to dwell on the possible suitors that Aziraphale might have had over the six thousand years they’ve existed in their corporal forms. This is their last – their _ only _– chance for this. There are no more tomorrows or next times. There are no more lives to stumble upon each other in. There’s nothing to hold onto anymore because when all is said and done, heaven will not be shared. 

Despite hoping with every inch of himself, he never exactly expected a yes. 

“You’re lovely, dear,” Aziraphale whispers. 

“I am no such thing,” Crowley says back because what else is he supposed to say to that? He is not lovely. He is a monster of scales and sleuth and temptation and Aziraphale is his last siren song. 

“Are you ready?” 

“No.” Crowley has lost most of his clothing at this point, but his black button-up is open and hangs splayed across the bed. Aziraphale is wearing most of his clothing. Far too much of it for Crowley’s liking. While his jacket and vest have long since been stripped, he’s still got his own undershirt on. It’s buttoned up all the way to the last three, which Crowley undone in a desperate attempt to leave as many marks across Aziraphale’s neck and shoulders as he could. It sits untucked and wrinkled around his waist and his hair is absolutely disheveled. His pants are open but on, the zipper pulled all the way down and the waist of them even shimmied down a little bit, but still it’s not good enough. 

A montage overcomes him. Mesopotamia. Rome. _ Paris_. All of it flashes before Crowley in series of emotion and he falls deeper and deeper into his cataclysmic version of love. Tainted, but so heavenly. 

With a thought, the problem is gone. Aziraphale smiles down at him. If he’s bashful, it doesn’t show. His face is nothing but serenity and fondness. It makes Crowley’s skin _ crawl. _The soft edges of his body catch in the dim lighting from the nightstand table. He’s practically glowing in the night. It’s beautiful. It’s everything Crowley ever wanted. Everything he’s yearned for since that garden wall. 

“Are you ready, _ now?” _

Crowley swallows the thick feeling of apprehension that’s welded its way into his throat and nods. 

Aziraphale, perfectly slick and ready, sinks inside. 

It burns, but only because Crowley wants it to. Aziraphale is the perfect size, filling him painstakingly slowly until they’re flush together. He makes himself comfortable, giving Crowley time he doesn’t need to adjust to a stretch that isn’t necessary. 

“Is this okay?” Azriaphale asks.

Crowley nods. “How do you feel?”

“Quite wonderful,” Aziraphale sighs. Then, with permission, he begins to move his hips. It’s a slow, all-consuming motion that rocks Crowley to his core. 

The sheets crinkle as Crowley winds his fingers into them. From the bottoms of his feet to the very last hair on his head, he’s overwhelmed. His eyes are clenched shut and his mouth is hanging open, probably in the most unattractive way, but he can’t help it. Aziraphale’s thrusts are calculated and perfect, every single motion filing him up fully and completely. His core burns hotter than hell itself. 

He’s never felt like this before. So pure, so true. He feels almost as though he’s unfallen. He’s been found again by the holiest of creatures, but also lost at the same time. Lost in the sense that he has no idea who he is anymore. He’s not a son of Satan or a child of God. He just _ is _in this moment. He’s selfishly taking all the pleasure he can get while at the same time worshipping the being above him. 

Aziraphale picks up the pace a little bit and the shift makes Crowley’s eyes snap open as a lewd sound falls from his mouth. Above him, he can see small beads of sweat dripping down porcelain skin. Aziraphale’s own mouth is hanging open and his eyes are completely glazed over. He’s got one of Crowley’s legs pushed up and is gripping it hard enough to leave a bruise if either of them were so inclined to will the mark into existence.

“You’re absolutely divine,” he says. The words drip down the thick air into Crowley’s ears. They seep into his pores and burn little holes into the skin. Crowley can’t tell if he loves it or hates it. All of this spontaneity; this heat of the moment shit. None of its real. It’s all manufactured under the pressure of impending war and sacrifice. Words of pleasure doused in lies. “Tell me, Crowley, what do you like?”

Crowley grunts in response, heat licking up the base of his spine as Aziraphale continues work his hips forward. “Everything. Anything,” is all he manages to say. 

He rocks his hips back to meet Aziraphale and the motion practically doubles his pleasure. He can’t hide the sounds coming out of his mouth and soon, Aziraphale is echoing him. The sound of it bounces around the room and gets absorbed by the book cases lining the walls. 

Crowley knows the name of every book in this room – hell, he knows ever book in the shop. Since the inception of his bookshop, Aziraphale has boasted the name of each acquisition with pride. The complete works of Shakespeare (all first editions, of course), Matilda, Oscar Wilde. You name it, Aziraphale has it, Crowley knows it. Inscriptions and dates burned into his brain like a brand he never asked for but always cherished. 

Aziraphale’s free hand cascades down Crowley’s chest. Goosebumps follow in its wake as it explores each bump and crevice on the way down. Crowley isn’t impressive by any means, at least not by his own standard. He is lanky and thin, body contorting in weird and wild ways when he walks. His chest and stomach are hollow and rigid, sharp in all the wrong ways. Still, though, Aziraphale does not cut his palm open the way Crowley fears he might. Instead, it feels like his hand leaves a trail of divinity in its wake. 

Then, he wraps his hand around Crowley’s cock and gives it one, two, three firm strokes. It makes Crowley arch his back and groan, sparks flying at the mix of sensations. His entire body trembles, it shakes under the pressure of being so deeply satisfied. 

“Crowley, I –”

“Don’t.” Crowley cuts him off in a second. He knows what Aziraphale was going to say and he knows he can’t handle it. It would be too much at this point. Little white lies, sure, but this? No, this isn’t some grand confessional or a place to recount sins that don’t exist. He won’t stand for this, not in his own bed. “Don’t speak, angel.” 

He reaches up and winds an arm around Aziraphale’s neck and brings him down for a kiss. He lets himself get lost in it, really get lost. There’re so many sensations lighting up across his body. The feeling of soft lips on his own, a feeling of being full in ways he never imagined feeling. Pleasure licks up his spine in delicious pulses and his skin prickles in ways he’s never known it to do before. Everything washes over him like a tidal wave.

Once, he felt like he’d lost the angel. Truly lost him. St. James park had never been so green. Before a time where there was electronics or pollution or fragrant tainting of the natural world, there was green grass and a bright sun and clear water. Ducks swam on ponds and shady, ill fitting individuals met up on well worn paths. It wasn’t unlike them to meet there. As per their arrangement, it was better to do so as though they were hiding in plain sight. Crowley himself would have devised any means necessary to meet with Azriaphale, to see him in the flesh again. 

The fight felt so final. The words slung back and forth between the two of them cut deeper than any toruture he’d experienced below the crust of the Earth. He’d slept the rest of the 19th century away. Loyalty, previously uncompromised sat in shambles next to his ability to process the loss. 

Now, he may have to spend the next several millennia processing that same loss. If he even makes it that far. 

“What to do with you,” Aziraphale hums, breaking the kiss. He almost looks unphased by it all, but his voice gives it away. Its strung tight, like he’s barely hold on. Sweat glimmers off of every inch of his skin and his eyebrows are quirked up into a look of pleasure and desperation. “I think I know just the thing.”

Suddenly, Crowley’s world spins on its axis. It takes him a second to reorient himself and realize that they’ve been flipped. Now, he sits perched on Aziraphale’s thighs, hands braced on his chest. Aziraphale’s face is a steady mixture between apprehension and anticipation. He looks like he wants to keep going, wants to ride this into the night, but is waiting for the stamp of approval before doing so. He gives Crowley’s hips a gentle squeeze before saying, “There we are.”

Aziraphale gives an experimental buck and it sends something intoxicating down the base of Crowley’s spine. He gets the hint and lifts himself up before bearing back down. The pace he sets is ruthless and soon they’re both panting, stifled moans prickling the air around them. 

“I want to hear you.” The words sibilate in an unintentional way but Crowley couldn’t care less even if he wanted to. Scales be damned, he was losing himself in this if it was the last thing he ever did. Tomorrow, he’ll be consumed by flames and fire. Tonight? Fire of a different kind. _ Death _of a different kind.

Aziraphale is the closest thing Crowley has ever come to the feeling of heaven. It is nothing but a distant memory, but underneath the haze and confusion one thing manages to come through. The feeling he gets when he’s with Aziraphale; indescribable by the human language but felt across eons of existence. He knows he’ll never get to heaven, not tonight and not after the war. But this is the closest he’ll ever come again.

There’s no way to ask for what he wants. Angels and demons can last as long as they want. They could continue this for the next century if they wanted to. But despite this, Crowley feels something clawing its way from the bottom of his stomach to the top of his ribs. He wants to chase it as far as it will take him until he’s dissolving into a puddle of nothing but pleasure and existential longing. 

The moment he knew his desires were only those of reveries happened in the Bentley. Azriaphale wouldn't even so much as look at him, could hardly speak through the knot in his throat. He looked almost as torn as Crowley felt, handing over a suicide pill in a bottle. It was at that moment he knew he would give anything for Aziraphale. He would defy heaven and hell and anything bigger than the two of them to keep Aziraphale safe, to keep them together_ . _His feelings for the angel transcend all forms of celestial life. 

_ “You go to fast for me, Crowley.” _

God, does he ever. Was this too fast, too? Is this too much? Of course it is. That’s all he’ll ever be. Too fast, too much, too unkempt and unruly and unlovable. Even tonight, even when he feels so whole, it’s not . Not when he knows he’ll never be good enough for this. He’ll never truly deserve it. Nothing more than a seized opportunity, taking advantage of some watered down fantasy he thought he’d never get. 

He comes down harder. The sound of skin slapping against skin rings out in a deliciously obscene way. Crowley thinks it’s fitting, a filthy angelic chorus between the two of them. Aziraphale cries out in tandem with Crowley, hands gripping his hips and urging him down, meeting him with his own thrusts. 

When he looks down, Aziraphale is looking up at him. His eyes are fixated on Crowley’s face like he’s studying him. The attention isn’t something Crowley is used to but he can’t say he doesn’t like. He keens under it, matching Aziraphale’s gaze before bending over to press his face into this skin of his lover’s neck. The new angle strikes his prostate dead on and it only takes a couple more thrusts for the apex to come. 

All at once, he falls apart. 

He sees white as it overcomes him. His back arches and his head falls back onto his shoulders in a sickeningly beautiful way. He can feel Aziraphale’s hands caressing his hips and thighs as he rides through it. Bliss and intoxication bleed through every single inch of his body until he can’t take it anymore; until he isn’t even sure he’s ever existed at all. 

He’s wanted this for as long as he can remember. Which is to say, since the beginning of it all. He’s been damned since the garden. That golden hair, those wistful wings, the way Aziraphale sheltered him from the rain. The way he _ protected _ him. It wasn’t just the way he looked, it was the way he made Crowley _ feel _ . He hasn’t felt so protected, so _ noticed _since before the beginning. They’ve been tied to each other since then. Invisible string caught between worlds and wrapped around the sphere of the Earth until the spool unthreaded and left only them. 

And now, he’s had it. It’s over. An act of desperation and longing. An unrequited experience. For Aziraphale, it was only a stone not to be left unturned; but for Crowley, it was everything. 

Warmth washes over Crowley in the aftermath. Inside, he can feel Aziraphale’s spent cock softening. 

They catch their breath, side by side and tangled up in the loose sheets. He isn’t sure who miracles the mess away, but one of them must because Crowley no longer feels sticky or slick in places he’d rather not feel much of anything. 

Silence becomes them. The weight of their acts hangs in the space between them. Crowley isn’t sure what to say. He isn’t sure how to address the situation, or if he should at all. Did Aziraphale enjoy it? Does he regret it? Either answer would be too much to bear so he settles for clenching his jaw and sinking as deep into the mattress as he can go. 

“Oh, _ Anthony _,” the words paint over Crowley’s skin in ink that is destined to wash away. “I do wish…”

He trails off, staring at the patterned ceiling of his bedroom. A fan idly spins, circulating air back down onto them in an unnecessarily cooling way. 

“What? What do you wish?” Crowley asks. His voice is nothing but a whisper but in the quiet of the room it rings like a siren. 

“It’s nothing,” Aziraphale says back. “Nothing at all.”

**Author's Note:**

> Holy shit writing for this pairing is hard? Like, super hard? But I also love them so much so here's to trying new things and hopefully doing it some more!
> 
> I've had this idea in my head since the show dropped and bastille dropped their Album Doom Days. This fic is entirely based off of the song Another Place and loosely follows the lyrics through the song. It also has hints of Those Nights and Bad Decisions. I highly recommend listening to this album. It screams gay apocalypse.
> 
> Huge thanks to tinyarmedtrex for betaing this for me and giving me some amazing ideas for expansion. Cheers to her, I can't wait to see what she writes for this fandom.


End file.
